


The Underfresh fic no one asked for

by infinitepenguin



Category: UnderFresh (Undertale AU), Undertale
Genre: Angst, Death, Foul Language, Minor Body Horror, Possession, Tags Contain Spoilers, Timeline Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 05:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6787120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitepenguin/pseuds/infinitepenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Classic Sans learns the meaning of sk8 or be sk8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: This story is rife with my personal headcannons. Additionally, Fresh belongs to loverofpiggies on Tumblr and this is merely my interpretation of her character.

The crisp scent of pine needles surrounds Sans as he crunches through the snow in the direction of the Ruins. Normally he would just take a shortcut directly to the door, but Papyrus has been on his case lately about putting more puzzles between his station and the Ruins entrance. _that new costume of his has made paps more motivated than ever,_ Sans thinks to himself with a small grin. Papyrus doesn't seem to realize how pointless the Royal Guard is without any humans around, but that doesn't stop him one bit. Papyrus has always had goals and aspirations, even in a place as stagnate and hopeless as the Underground. _that's what makes him the best bro a guy could ask for._

Sans knows for a fact that Papyrus has already checked this section of the forest for potential "LOCATIONS FOR JAPING HUMANS." He was there when they first checked the area. That's why he also knows that at the only place they could have built any sort of deterrent, his brother insisted they build a bridge instead. Sans thinks back on that particular exchange, a wide smile on his face. "SANS, DON'T BE LAZY! IF WE DON'T BUILD A BRIDGE HERE THE HUMAN COULD GET HURT! AND HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO TAKE THEM TO THE CAPITAL THEN?!?!" _heh, he's so thoughtful._

Sans peers about the forest to "SCOUT OUT" potential puzzle locations, per his brother's request. An icy layer of snow covers the ground around him, amplifying the creak of the trees in the wind and the whispering rustle of pine needles. The forest towers above him, providing an atmosphere of peace and shelter. Sans looks up and squints. He squints until he can almost imagine that the trees could grow forever, and there was no cavern ceiling, and the sky was just behind those cold, grey clouds. _wouldn't that be something?_ he sighs heavily. _heh. its kind of nice actually walking through here for a change,_ he muses, letting his mind wander as he treks down the path. BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR HUMANS, SANS! His brother's voice reminds him in his head. _humans? there hasn't been a human in the underground for decades. at least. chances are there won't be one anytime soon._ He couldn't say that to his brother though. Papyrus' hopes and dreams depend entirely on that slim chance. _maybe we can find a place for a puzzle or two, after all. it sure would make papyrus happy._ Sans shoves his hands into his pockets, deep in thought, a little flame of motivation kindling to life. _locations will be tough, but we can work around it. the first thing we need are puzzle designs, so we know how much land to clear. the puzzles will have to be classics, so none of the monsters hurt themselves in unfamiliar territory... not that any monsters really come out here anymore. but, hell, if humans supposedly enter the underground from the ruins, then shouldn't a monster be just as likely to leave the ruins and run across these puzzles? i wouldn't want a monster to get hurt if they decide to leave. especially, if-_

_no._

Sans stops his train of thought abruptly. He and the old lady have never talked about why she stays on the other side of that door. He has a feeling she doesn't want to talk about it. For all he knows, she may not even be able to leave. The least he can do is share a good laugh over a couple bad puns with her, so she can forget about the sad stuff in life for a little bit. That tiny spark of motivation passes as quickly as it came, leaving Sans feeling cold and drained in its absence. Suddenly, walking through the forest feels like a hassle, so he pulls to the right, steps off the path, and leans against the trunk of a tree steeped in shadows. Shoulders slumped, he slides down the length of the tree and settles himself in between the giant roots. _i'll just rest for a minute._

* * *

  _something is happening._

Sans wakes suddenly, but remains still, senses alert. It takes him a couple seconds to pinpoint what is setting him on edge: the forest is nearly silent. Was it the quiet that woke him? He scans the immediate area around him, but nothing seems off. Fresh snowfall covers the ground, fluffy and undisturbed. No one is around. As he slowly stands, Sans can't help but try to remain quiet, too. Somehow, it feels like the forest itself is holding its breath. The atmosphere is unnerving to say the least, and Sans is filled with apprehension.

Breaking through the snow bank crowding along the forest's edge, Sans steps onto the blanketed path. _good thing i didn't sleep out here, i guess. i'd be frozen to the bone._ He chuckles to himself, but it's halfhearted. He can't seem to relax. The woods have never felt like this before. _eh, i guess i'll just go home._ He turns to the left with a shrug, preparing a shortcut to Snowdin. That's when he sees it. Someone else is farther down on the path. Sans stares, dumbstruck. The figure seems to be hunched over to look at the ground, possibly facing away from him, but from this distance it's hard to see the details. _is that... a human?_  
Sans doesn't really want anything to do with it. If anything, he wants to just blast it from here and be done, but... I MUST CAPTURE A HUMAN, SANS! I MUST BE THE ONE! _the things i do for love,_ he sighs. _i guess i better go talk to it and see if it's a threat._ Sans slips through a shortcut to a spot a few steps behind it. He wants to make sure he catches it off guard.

There.

The details jump out at him now that he's just behind it. The contrast of bright neon colors against the white, snowy scenery draw the eye involuntarily. Sans looks down at the strange human. Like he suspected, the figure is hunched over the ground, but he can now see that it's shaking infinitesimally beneath its brightly colored eyesore-of-a-hoodie. Even from behind, Sans can see that each part of the jacket is a different eye-piercing shade of ugly, and the jarring palette is starting to give Sans a headache. It has a cap on of some kind, just as colorful, but the bill is turned backwards, preventing him from noting any hair or skin color. If it noticed him appear, it's doing a damn good job of hiding it. The silence hangs heavily in the air, setting Sans' teeth on edge.

 _welp, that confirms it,_ he grimaces. _humans are even worse than i imagined._ He really didn't want to talk to it. He didn't even know why; that was the worst part. For some reason, he can't shake the feeling that something is off; out of place. _if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, i guess. time to out-creep the creep._ He closes the gap between him and the human, letting the crunch of untouched snow beneath his sneakers announce his arrival. Unease ripples through him as he studies the figure bent over the snow: It doesn't even flinch.

"human," he booms out, trying to startle it. "don't you know how to greet a new pal?" Somehow, his voice isn't having quite the effect he had expected. The only response the human gives in return is an intensified trembling. _heh, so i guess you're not deaf._ He had started entertaining that possibility, but now dismisses the notion. _so why are you just crouching there?_

Sans changes tactics. This damn thing needs to stand and face him. Doing his best to remain patient, he tries again, voice low. "turn around and shake my hand." Sans thrusts his left hand forward, waiting. His gut is telling him to attack, but he stifles the instinct. After all, it's just a human. Creepy? Sure, but it hasn't even done anything yet. _yet,_ the back of his mind whispers to him. He shudders, _why do i feel like i'm missing something obvious?_

The human moves, distracting Sans from his thoughts. Its movements are twitchy and halting. Is it scared? _i'm the one creeped out right now, you weirdo._ As it rises to its full height, Sans is reminded of a broken marionette. The human's shoulders are drooped forward, and its head is hanging down on its chest, hidden from his view. It seems like it might be the same height as him. In fact, their builds are pretty similar, too. The human turns in one quick movement, and, in that exact moment, realization dawns too late as Sans finally pinpoints the exact reason he was uneasy from the start: _there weren't any footprints in the snow._

Sans starts to retract his hand, alarms blaring in his head, but the creature already has it firmly in its grasp. The skeleton's wide, malicious grin is mere inches from Sans' own face, and it wraps its other arm around his shoulders in a friendly bear hug. _this monster, it... looks like me!_ It looks exactly like him, actually, because somehow- impossibly- it is him. The other-Sans leans back to look him full in the face, keeping its arm wrapped around his shoulder. Mind reeling, Sans almost misses what the monster says. **"Well aren't you a sight for SORE eyes!"** Purple essence is seeping from the other-Sans' eyes, and there seems to be an unusual shape residing in the center of at least one of the eye sockets. Sans wants to know more, to understand, but he wants away from this thing before anything else.

He rolls his shoulder abruptly and manages to shake free of the unwanted embrace, but when he tries to yank his hand away, the terrifying other-Sans' grip clenches like a vise. **"Thanks, brah. You're doing me a real solid,"** it trills happily with a wink. Sans realizes with mounting horror that this creature was never scared- instead, it could barely contain its excitement. The other-Sans' trembling rapidly escalates to violent shaking, and its grin stretches even wider. Sans' hand feels like it's being crushed and an unpleasant buzzing sensation is rolling through it, similar to the time he touched the ball from Papyrus' shock maze. Dread punches him in the gut, leaving him gasping. "let go of-"

Sans recoils, blinded by a sudden flash of light. He blinks rapidly, only able to see a vibrant kaleidoscope of colors for a disconcertingly long moment. When his vision clears, he realizes his hand is free, but, to his great surprise, the freaky Sans is gone. In its place is a different Sans. _what is going on?_ This new Sans is slumped in the snow, dressed in the same clothing Sans himself is wearing. The replica Sans looks like he can barely stay conscious, not to mention be a threat, but Sans takes a step back anyway. "what are y-"

Sans' voice catches as a wisp of purple grabs his attention from his peripheral. He looks over to his left hand, just barely catching a glimpse of purple pulse around his hand. _did i really see that?_ He stares at his hand, bewildered. His fingers are twitching, each digit moving individually of one another. He tries to stop them from moving, but they won't do what he tells them. Instead it gets worse. A buzzing sensation zips through his hand and all his fingers clench involuntarily. The replica Sans speaks, his voice so soft, Sans isn't sure he heard him correctly. "i'm so sorry. i tried." Sans looks up, baffled, but his doppelgänger is gone. _did he use a shortcut? where did he-_

All coherent thought is brought to a screeching halt as lightning blasts through Sans' hand. The sensation starts to crawl up into his carpus. His radius now. Sans shakes his arm wildly, like he's trying to rid himself of a snake wrapped tightly around his limb. A snake that's compressing on his bones uncomfortably, but it's made of electricity and it's sinking its fangs into him for purchase with every inch it crawls.

Sans yelps aloud, batting at his arm, almost too panicked to think straight. _what should i do? what's happening?_ He looks around for ideas. No one else is around. He could get to town, but even if he uses a shortcut he doesn't know who could help him. He throws himself to the side of the path, falling into a snowbank with a solid oomph. He burrows his arm deep into the snow and claws at it with his other hand. It doesn't seem to be helping. It feels like whatever is attacking him is inside his bones. The sensation is halfway up his humerus now.  
_idiot!_ The feeling is almost to his shoulder. He only has one option.

Sans attempts to dig his fingers into his shoulder socket but his clothes are in the way. He loses a couple precious seconds scrambling to get them out of the way because his fingers are shaking uncontrollably. Rolling onto his back, Sans rotates his arm and wedges his elbow between his knees. With fingers wedged into his shoulder socket for purchase, Sans prepares to rip his arm out. Before his first attempt, the offending appendage flails violently, fingers clawed menacingly. _oh god. oh god. how is this happening?_ Sans traps his arm with his shins and grips his elbow as best he can. Arching his back fiercely, Sans gets one solid attempt in. But it's too late. The sensation has spread to his clavicle and passed the point of no return. Sans stills, pulse reverberating through his skull. Numbly, he runs through his options.

He can either sit still as he tries not to pass out from the pain... Or keep trying to get rid of... whatever this is. _i could yank at the clavicle i guess,_ he thinks clinically, _but i've never removed it before. i won't get it out in time._ Should he even be fighting anyway? _i could just go home, but... i don't want to freak paps out._ Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sans notes that the sensation has spread to his sternum and begun moving down, towards his soul. _it's hard to fight back when you don't know what's happening._ The feeling hasn't moved like a worm, inching its way through a set increment of space within his bones, but instead has spread, like lava flowing from an infinite source, slowly, surely, and burning white hot. The forest is silent except for Sans' uneven, ragged breathing, when his soul is finally attacked.

The pain of it is indescribable and, for one oddly calm moment, Sans is certain he is dying. His vision blinks to white, and his faint but rapid pulse radiates lightning out from the center of his chest, like flames rolling through his entire body. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it is over. His vision is clear, and he is lying in the snow, his breathing calm and steady. So why does he feel so disoriented? Nausea writhes in his gut uncomfortably. Sans tries to relax into the snow, to revel in the soft, icy feeling on his aching bones, but instead he stands and dusts himself off. _what? i... i... didn't decide... to do that..._ His thoughts are staggering, refusing to arrive at their inevitable destination. _no... that's impossible..._ Any chance of denial is crushed in one absurd sentence.

**"What is up, my FRESH new body-bro?"**


	2. Chapter 2

Sans feels his magic flood his body in retaliation. He can _feel_ it. It's _right_ there. But the haze of magic around his eye is a noxious purple instead of its standard blue, and when he tries to use it, nothing happens. He tries to scream with frustration; nothing happens. He tries harder, magic blazing through him more intensely than it ever has before; nothing happens. " **Woah there, pal. Chillax on the adrenaline, ya? We don't need that much juice right now, you dig?"** _no no no no no no_ Sans' thoughts are an incoherent babble of denial, revulsion, and fear. Sans strains with all his might to move something on his own, his fear quickly churning into panic. **"I mean it, amigo. Just goooo with the floooooow."** The demon- Sans can't think of it as anything else- moves his arms in a gentle waving motion that drives Sans wild. He can _feel_ his arms make the motion. His body sighs. **"OK, since we're friends-"** _friends!?_ **"-I'll give you a minute to chill. It's totally NOT cool to make the same mistake twice."** He suddenly turns to the side, a corny thumbs-up in front of him, and winks conspiratorially. **"Remember, dudes and dudettes. Ignoring your mental health may SEEM like a totally gnarly idea,"** it wags a finger chidingly at the air, **"but it is NOT the freshest way to handle your problems, yo."** It places his hands in his hips, **"Even the most funkilicious of bros sometimes needs a moment to cool off."** _who is it talking to?_  Whether he wants to or not, Sans' eyes close and his breathing deepens. His hands drop to his sides, palms rotated forward as if in supplication.

Stifling his rising panic, Sans tries to pretend that he _is_ calm; that _he_ is the one taking deep, soothing breaths. He can _feel_ the grin stretching uncomfortably tight across his face. He can even _feel_ the snow that's wormed its way into his sneakers. But he can't _do_ anything. _stop. i. need. to. be. calm. it's fine._ **_i'm_ ** _fine,_ he thinks, trying to keep a tight reign on his thoughts. _now... i'm going to move my fingers._ He tries but nothing happens. _again. try again._ Sans hones his focus on the cold wintry air running through his fingers. He thinks about how nice it would be to tuck his hands into his pockets. He goes through the motion in his mind; recalling the million times he's done it before. When he feels perfectly in tune with his body, he tries again... But nothing happens.

 _i can't move my body._ The incomprehensible thought bounces around Sans' mind over and over, unable to be absorbed. _wait._ Did his toes just twitch? Hope flickers desperately to life, but is dashed to pieces immediately. With agonizingly slow progress, every bone in his body jumps in response to a signal he isn't sending. From the tip of his toes and up both legs, through his torso and up every vertebrae in his spine; then down both arms, his body moves to commands that aren't his own. The demon pops his knuckles and cracks his neck luxuriously, the _pop pop pop_ echoing in Sans' head with the finality of nails hammering a coffin shut.

Despair swamps him then, and his fight is all but gone. That's when his face smiles. His eyes open now, and Sans notes with detached resignation that the purple haze has dissipated from his vision completely. **"See, isn't this the bomb?"**

It sounds so. god. damn. happy. Resentment curdles within Sans, and his sight disappears in a brilliant burst of fluorescent violet. **"Oh snap! What's the dealio, homey? Quit wigg'n out or I'll have to take some sick drastic measures, man."** _what else can it possibly do to me?_ Alarm slams through him, and his magic flares reflexively. **"Tut, tut,"** the demon clicks his tongue at him and shakes his head. It lowers his voice threateningly, **"You've totally forced my hand on this one, homeslice."** Sans didn't know he could be scared by his own voice. It reaches his hand up towards the hat on his head. The hat? _wait, when did my clothes change?_

 **"YOINK!"** it shouts abruptly, startling him as something crashes down onto his face. _oh god oh god oh- what?_ It's... a pair of sunglasses? _what... does this mean?_ **"Righteous! Now we're good to go,"** it pumps a fist in the air excitedly. **"Straight-up pimpin' ya'll."** His arms shoot out in front of him, peace signs waving in the air energetically. Suddenly, it crosses his arms in a thoughtful pose, tapping the rim of the glasses with a finger. **"Listen up, friend. These glasses"** -tap, tap- **"are all that and a bag of chisps, so I'm TOTALLY down with rocking them 24/7,"** the friendly grin on his face slowly sharpens into a strained grimace. **"And since you keep freakin' out, we are going to have to keep these pretty peepers outta sight."**

 **"You know what they say, don't you?"** The demon runs a thumb slowly across Sans' chin with undue intimacy and a dramatic pause, **"That 'eyes are windows to the soul'?"** It snickers, but Sans can't figure out what's so funny. His irritation summons a brief flicker of purple magic. **"That reminds me,"** it drawls, twirling a bony finger in the quickly fading magic. **"I hate to point fingers, but, to be honest, you're not being a very gracious host for my awesome vibes."** It shakes his head with seemingly genuine disappointment. **"That's really not cool. You're hurting my feelings, dawg,"** it laments tragically, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye.

 **"So let me make one thing clear,"** the creature wraps his arms around his torso and and nuzzles his face into his shoulder in a sickening mimicry of self comfort that leaves Sans feeling nauseous and violated. **"This is MY bodacious bod now,"** it croons gleefully. **"You better get used to it, Sans."**

 _it knows who i am,_ he thinks, stricken. He doesn't know why he is surprised. This thing had obviously been possessing that Sans from earlier. _it'd be easier to give up,_ a traitorous, sullen part of his mind whispers to him. What else can he possibly do? His body won't do what he tells it to, not even the slightest bit. _it's over. i've lost._ So why does this thing even feel the need to tell him what to do? _why does it bother? unless... there are things it can't control?_ Sans forces himself to ignore the smirk that isn't his on his face and retreats into his own consciousness as best he can. He's close to realizing something he knows it. He just needs to think it through.

His body sighs contently, jarring him from his thoughts. **"Right on! This is what I'm talkin' bout."** _damn is it hard to concentrate when your body moves on its own._ **"I got some important biz to take care of, so let's bounce!"** Sans feels a stab in the center of his chest at the same time that his magic begins to pool into his palms. _it's using my magic!_ he cries with indignation. **"COWABUNGA!"** the demon shouts, then hurtles them through a some kind of shortcut that Sans has never used before. Normally when Sans uses a shortcut, he slips through a slit in space; it only takes him one step to move from place to place. But this teleport is more akin to a _tunnel_ than anything he has used before. It isn't exactly a tunnel, though, since Sans is fairly certain that they are passing through a fourth dimension.


	3. Chapter 3

The strangest part about traveling through the portal was the disorienting sensation of moving through space without moving your body. It feels more like space is moving  _ around _ him than anything else. If he had control of his body, Sans would be scrunching his eyes closed. He can't tell if it’s too bright or too dark, but whatever his eyes are being exposed to feels like molten iron directly shoved into his brain and all he wants is for it to stop. He doesn't have control though, so his eyes flick around incessantly, sifting through sights Sans himself can't perceive. Time passes, how much, he is not sure, but when they finally exit the portal, Sans is exhausted and haggard.

Sans takes in his new surroundings as best he can, but with no control of where he looks, the attempt leaves him frustrated and dizzy. Wherever he is, it's dark and cold. Wind is steadily gusting by him, bringing the distant warped sound of shutters banging in the breeze. His eyes adjust, and he can see that he is in a large, dark room.  _ this place kind of reminds me of- oh,  _ Sans registers numbly that he  _ is _ , in fact, in his living room. Something about it is off, though. None of the lights are on, half the windows are open, and the majority of the furniture is pushed back against one of the walls. Books, papers, and many other small objects are piled in organized chaos on the floor, and strange cylindrical containers are stacked along the spare wall space. A table is set in the center of the room and a chrome trolley is parked next to it; the tools neatly laid on it gleam dimly in the low lighting. 

The demon bustles about the room, avoiding obstacles and furniture with familiar ease, but Sans can hardly pay attention to what his body is doing.  _ that's... that's a human. _ There's no mistaking it this time, but the human isn't what has Sans' mind reeling: it's the state they're in. Pitiful wheezing cuts through the wind, and, despite Sans' indoctrinated hatred of humanity, his heart aches at the sight confronting him. 

A human child is strapped to the table, but their clothing is soaked, and the table is slick with a thin layer of ice. The ends of their hair and edges of their clothing is covered with frost. As the demon approaches the table, Sans can easily make out the human's rapid breathing. Despite their thick clothing, he can clearly see their chest sink in with each laborious breath and when his body leans over to inspect the child, Sans can hear a faint gurgle towards the end of each exhalation. However, he is disturbed to notice that, despite the arduous effort the lungs are making, their breath disturbs the air with hardly more than a brief puff. With his face hovering closely above the human's, he feels their breathing as it leaves their cracked, blue lips to brush against him in icy whispers.

Frost fringed lashes flutter faintly above sunken eyes and the dark circles beneath them are mottled a dark purple. A blazing red line trails from the outer corner of each eye: the remnants of old tear stains that froze on the exposed skin. From this uncomfortably close perspective, Sans is horrified to see that the tip of their nose is chalky white and small blisters are protruding from the skin intermittently. The surrounding tissue is a deep, irritated maroon that quickly fades to the pale, near-blue pallor making up the majority of the kid's complexion.

The human emits a soft, mewling groan, and Sans wants to be sick, but his face smiles beatifically, and his hand reaches up to pat the human's frigid cheek affectionately. His body then straightens, cups the human's nearest hand in his own gently, and inspects the fingers. Each one has a long, thin cut running down its entire inner-length, but the pinky and ring finger are slightly discolored, looking darker than the rest at the tips and under the fingernails. The demon scrutinizes each finger. It pokes and prods, squeezes and tugs, leaving Sans to wonder with horrified fascination what it is trying to accomplish. Eventually, the demon tut-tuts with annoyance, then, in one swift motion, scoops up a scalpel and slices the middle finger wide open, snagging some of the fleshy palm. The blood is inky black in the darkness, and oozes out of the cut feebly. The human doesn't react; Sans wonders if they can even feel their hand anymore. 

Sans feels a pull on his magic, and the stabbing sensation returns to his sternum again, significantly higher up than the last time. The demon directs the magic to his fingertips and extends it out, surrounding the human's bleeding finger. Sans is filled with revulsion, but pays close attention to the flow of his magic.  _ it's like it's trying to channel magic into the human, _ he observes, unable to smother his morbid curiosity. _ but that's impossible! humans aren't like monsters. their bodies are composed of physical matter, rendering monster and human magic incompatible. doesn't this thing know that?  _ The demon starts to draw more and more magic, causing the discomfort in Sans' chest to rise- literally. His sternum and ribs feel like they are going to melt from the effort, but the demon pushes on, gripping the human's bleeding appendage tighter and tighter. It doesn't release its hold on his magic until the feeling spreads up Sans' spine to the base of his neck.

Sans soon discovers that his pain wasn't the reason the demon stopped. Eerie red light is radiating from the human's chest, and his eyes stare at the emerging shape with single-minded focus. The light source is rising slowly, and, just as Sans comprehends what he is seeing, his body quickly shuffles over to the wall. The demon grabs one of the cylindrical containers, turns back to the human, and catches the fresh human soul like a butterfly in a jar.

It stares at the dazzling red soul, seemingly in a trance, for an indeterminable amount of time. Sans uses the lull in activity to recall a mental picture of when he first arrived in the room, attempting to estimate the number of soul containers he had seen.  _ fourteen? are there really fourteen soul containers here? where did this thing even get that many?  _ Eyes still trained on the human soul, Sans stares at it since he has no choice in the matter. It's glowing strongly; every second or so it pulses, bright then dim. The demon has him standing there, so perfectly still that it isn't even blinking, and the rhythmic pulsing of the soul is the closest thing Sans has to replicate the bodily function. Bright then dim. Bright then dim... Bright... then... dim. Sans is overwhelmed by mental exhaustion, the events of the day finally starting to take its toll.  _ i want to sleep,  _ he thinks deliriously.

Reality hits him like a slap in the face.  _ i can't sleep because i'm no longer in control of my life.  _ It's been hours -possibly- since his circumstances have changed, but Sans is ambushed by the sudden knowledge that this horrifying nightmare won't end when the day is done.  He just saw a human for the first time. He watched that same human die. This is all real. This is all happening to him. And there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. He can't sleep this problem away. He can't use his magic. He can't even blink his  _ fucking _ eyes on his own. 

Panic wells inside him, bringing his magic broiling to the surface; shifting the blood-red light filling the room to a bright shade of magenta. This seemingly catches the demon's attention.  **"Dude,"** it addresses him, abruptly piercing the silence. It carefully sets the soul on the trolley next to its corpse, then unbuckles the restraints at the table's edge. **"You're not going postal over this,"** it shoves the body off the table with a grunt,  **"thing are you?"** It wipes his hands off on his jacket. **"It's a HUMAN. Whoops,"** it delicately places a hand on his chest in a mock apology,  **"WAS a human."** It rolls his eyes sardonically, **"A totes whacked one at that. Total buzz kill."** It spares a brief glance in the direction of the body on the floor. **"Now it's useless."**

**"Still..."** It sighs remorsefully,  **"losing an old toy is a such a bummer, man."** It shakes his head and waves a hand flippantly in the air.  **"Whatevs, I learned a lot these past few weeks..."** It pauses mid-motion, looking skeptically up at the ceiling with a thoughtful frown. **"Or was it months?"** It shrugs, then picks up the soul, bestowing it ceremoniously in the dead center of the table.  **"At least I scored some sweet grub."** It strokes the soul container lovingly and waggles his eyebrows suggestively,  **"Can never have too many of these, amiright?"**


	4. Chapter 4

_"grub"..._ Sans' worst fears are confirmed. _i've been possessed by some sort of inter-dimensional, soul-sucking leech. huh. never thought i'd be able to say something like that,_ he laughs to himself, one harsh bark. _ha! actually,_ he corrects himself, _i **still** can't say that, because i can't **say** anything._ His head breaks out in sweat. _i can't believe it!_ The more he thinks about it, the funnier it is. _ha ha ha! we take all these precautions against the **dangerous** humans, and then i'm kidnapped by a magical **leech!**_ Hysteria bubbles in him, and if he had control of his body, he would be laughing relentlessly. _this is hilarious!_ Magic pours from his eyes in great purple waves, and the demon can't seem to keep him from shaking. His breathing is deep and even, but that feels wrong; he should be laughing! His brain summons an image of a fat, purple leech at a control console in his brain. It's laughing, too.

The front door bursts open suddenly, and his body whips around to face it, but Sans merely observes the situation from the back of his mind, still drowning in mirth. _oh look. i'm back._ A Sans is standing in the open doorway, leaning on the frame for support, but it looks like a toy, inconsequential and surreal, moving on its own without a puppet master. Back-lit by the eternal twilight of the Underground with his fierce features cast in the deep wine-red luminescence from the soul, Sans is reminded of an angry, glowing raspberry. _hello marionette,_ he thinks, vaguely recalling his first impression of seeing the other Sans. It seems like it might be talking- oh, it _is_ talking; his body is talking back- but his head is filled with static and he can't seem to find the right frequency, and only the occasional incomprehensible word slips through now and again.

**Sͭ͌̄̌ͮ̄̀̑̇̊̃̽͒ͧ̽̈̀͜͞n̨̡͐̌ͨͭ̃͒̌͂ͨ̍̄̐ͣ̇̐͌a͋̆́͊͛ͣ̈́ͫ̚͏̕p̨ͦͯ̔ͧ̒̽̈̔͏̛͟ś̨ͥͯ̉͗ͪ͠͠͡ ̂̽̑̊̉͑ͩͮ̏ͦͧ̈́̆̌͢͠t̵ͬ̒͗͂̆̐͆̀͜ȍͪ̑ͯ̒͊̌̌͐͛̾̑̀̕͟͡ ̶̴͊́̎̔҉ỳ̢̆ͪ͑̿̾̇̐͒ͫ̕͟͜͡ǫ̴̀͌̋ͫ͝üͯͨ̓̾́́҉,̈̆̑͑͑̿̑͒ͬ̏̋͏̀͡ ̨̿̊̿ͭͧͧ̈́ͫ̃҉̢͡mͬ̿ͬͪͯ̀̓̚͢͡͞y̓͐̒̋̓ͤͫ̿͌̏ͬ͆̂̅̈́͏́ ̛̈ͭͯ͂́́͢m͒ͣ̐̽̑̂͐ͦ̇͒̈́̇̔ͯ̐̔͡͏̸a͋̃͌̍̓̔̍̿͊̌ͧͧ̓̓ͤ͆͂͊̒̀͘҉iͭ̉̎ͣ̈ͥ̃̀͐́͟n̨ͭ́́͌͟ ̧̌ͤͪ͂ͬ̋̑̿ͦ̾̽ͫ̓̀m̴͋ͥ̎̋ͤ̇̂͋ͮ͜͞ą̵̸̈ͯͦ̅̋͊͛ͨ̆́n͊̉̅́͛̂̚͏̶̡̢͝.̷̨̈̆̎̒ͮ͆͌͑͑ͣͭ͛ͪ̾ͨͩ̿́͢͠ ̶̵̃ͨ̌̃̍̇̈́̈́̽͗́͏̵H̴̷̎͗̎͂ͧ̋ͥͪ͞͠͏ò̶̡ͦͨ̾̈́ͥ̕w̴̵ͪ̃ͫ̿̉̉͆͌ͯ́͘'̏̓̄̌̇͛́҉d̶̂ͬ̇ͯ̀͟͜͢ ̵̛̌̽̀̄̿ͪ̊͂̔̀̏ͧͣ̔ͬ͢͏y̷̡̡ͬ̌̓͆ͭ̄̃̒͌ͯỏ̡ͪͬ́́ͮ̓̃ͪ̕u̵̢͋̾̀̈́̿͞͞ ͊ͭ̓ͮ͊̈̃̋̌̀͗ͬ͋̚͘̕͘g̈ͯ͒͐̔̑͋̏ͤ͊̋̌̽͐͂ͨ̇̚͠e̍̈́͒̎ͩͪ̔ͣ͛ͨͥͤ̌̅ͫ̈́ͣͧͨ͢t͑͂ͦ̍ͤ̒̓ͯ̑̈͑ͣ̕͞ ͌͆̾̇ͤ́̇̉̎ͥ̏́̚̕͝͡b̵̨̛͌̃͑͗̅͛ͪͮ͡ą̴́ͥ̑ͫ̆̃̑͛̓̿ͨ͐ͤ̈́̉҉̸c̿ͣ͑̃ͫ҉͘͝͞͏k̷̈́̂ͪ̎ͥͧͯͦ͒͛͐̔͒̋͆̉͊̕͢͢?̡̃̽̒͗͢**

_c̵͂̒̾͒ͤ̆ͭ̄̆͒̽̑ͭ̂͞ũ͒ͫ͂ͥ̋̇̓̌ͮ̀̔̚̕͟͏̢t̨ͪ̇͆ͦͮ̎́ͯ̽̍̑̏ͪ̐͑̅̀̎̚͘͜ ̵ͭ͂͗̂͒͐͊̒ͬ́́ͭ̑̚͘͟t̵͒͋̌̂ͤ͗͡h̴̵̏̊̂ͨ͋̃́͊́͝ę̊ͨ̂̅͘ ̾̂̂̋͆̿̉̊ͧ͆҉̶͢ç̊ͪͨ̆̉̐̂̌ͧ̆̔̇ͮ͑̈́̀͢͜r͑ͯ̄̒͑ͪ̕à̷̇̑͛̌ͤ̍́͘͡p̨ͥͪͮ̾̉̒͒̿̒̒̇ͧͮͬ̍ͪ́͠҉,̵̧ͧ͌ͫ̉ͫ͋̆ ̷͑̎̒ͬ̽ͫ̽̍̑͊́̈́ͮ͆ͪ̋͑͟p̆̾ͤ̈́̋ͬ͆ͮ̂ͯ̔̅̾͏͝a̎̐ͤ̄͒̈̓̒͟͞r̸͛̈́̀͛̌ͩ̊ͤͣ̋̃ͨ̐́́͟͞a͆͒͗̅͋͊ͦ̇ͥ̽̀͏̧͟͡҉s̨ͫ͆ͣ́ͦ̔͒̏̄̽ͫ͋́̀̽̐͊ͩ͝͞͏̶į̧ͧ̋ͬ͂ͭͤ́̇̈ͫ̓̐͛ͪͣ͌͛͢͝͡ẗ̢͌ͮ͗̒̅̈͛̔͂ͮ̊̚҉͢ę̶͂͑͐ͭ́ͥ͆ͫ͆̍ͦ̌ͤͮ̚͡.̴̢̂́́̄̈̇̓͌̓͂̏̓̑͒ͪ͞ ̵̸̓̀̌ͫ̍iͥ͒̔̄̄͑̉͛ͩ͏̡̨͝'̛ͥ͋̈́ͭ̈́͆̏̇̾̄́̚͢͠mͫ̈̐͌ͫ͏͏ ̶̑̔͗ͥ̓̒̉̃̋ͫ̆͛͋̐͐̃̂̎̚̕s̢̽͂̐̀͂ͩ͑͂ͫ̓̉̐̿̿ͪͬ̒̈́̇͠҉҉̨ì̴̢̉̍͊̏ͦ̍̍̓͆ͧ̋̆͡ç̵͆͛́ͬͩ̈ͦ͑̿ͬ̃͆͋̎̌̊̿k̏̇͆̋̄̀̕͘ ̡͋ͪ̈́̉̂͋ͪ̃̀̓͐ͩ̔͐ͨ͂̑͡ö́͒ͥͧ̆̌ͪ̍͋̓͒ͧ͑ͪ̍ͭ̚̚҉̨̢͠͝f̴̧̓̎ͯ̌̽ͤ͆́̅̀̚͟ ̸̃ͥ̇͌͆̎ͥ̿ͩͪ̌̆͒ͧͩͭͪͮ͘͢͠͠y̵̨ͧ̐̈ͬ̓̍͂͗͌͠o̵͌̄̆ͬ̔̌̎ͯ̅̿͜ų̢̊̊̊́̔̊́̉̃̑͘r̷̛ͦͧ͐̈͒́̕͘ ͊ͫͣͫͯ͐̌̑̌̊͛ͦ͌͒ͣͮͥ̿̚͜҉́s̏̔̓ͬ̿̿ͩ̄͂ͫ̐͗ͪ̆͛́̚͝͡h̴̡̛͌̊͐͒̂ͦ̒̇̇̄̒ͦ͢i̛̎ͦ͒̏͂ͮ͢t̡̀̍͂̾ͯ̇̉́͡͞_

**̶̨̨ͤ̊̌͋̿̔̇̃̈́́̿ͤ̌̐̽͊͢Y̴ͧ̆ͣͫ̅̂ͪ̋͋̍̎̇ͯͩ̍̂ͤ̌ͨ͢͢iͫ̆̑̈́̅͌̉̄ͧ̊̂͆̿͞k͊͂̈́͗̊̔͋͋ͮ͏́͘͞͞ẽ̶̵ͪ̌ͣ͂̐͂̽̌̎͆̿̔͂̾ͧ͐͂̎͘͟s̓ͩ̉̾̋ͧ̀̎̔̿͋͒͒̄́̓ͨ̾́͞҉!̢̿̒̐͆͆ͨͤͣ͂͑̈͐ͮ͒͌̇̒̎̚ ̵̶̛ͮͨ̄̊ͥ̎̿̊̾͆ͯ̈͢͞N̸̨ͭ̓͑ͧ̆̿ͮo̓̀ͭ̾̈́ͪ̒̿̍̊̿ͭ̌ͦ̈̓͗̚̕̕͞ ͑̅͆͟͠n̷ͬ̄ͩ̂̌̓́̽͗̏̚͘ẽ̿̀̒͛̂ͯ͘̕͠҉͟ę̸͑ͪͪͦ̆͌́ͫ͂̾̽̈́̂̔͂͘͢d̴̽̊̍͗̈̋̄̓͒͜͟͠͡ ̷̨͋̓̆̓̾͒͑̅f̷̂́̈ͬ̒͊̔ͥͤ̀o̎̄͆̒ͤ͒̅̈́͏̀́͞r̷̨̧ͫ̅͑̈́̉̉ͮ̋͌͛͊̒̾̅̓̏ͨ͜͞ ̸̊̓͛́́͑͆ͤͬ̍ͨͯ̅ͤ̋ͧͩ̀s̷̆͗ͥͥ̊̊́̇͋̆̃͐̅ͥͮ̂̚͞ư͌͑̋̅̋ͤ̐̀̕͢ç̸̾̓ͤ́̽͞ĥ̷̷͒̀̌͆ͯ͆̀̀͟ ̛̛̂̈͌̊ͩ͂ͫ͗̓͗̐͛̏̆̆ͣç̿̀̾͆̌̐̔̎̎ͭͪͤ͋̚͏͘͡͡o̶̡̨̨̔͊́̿̓̍̕l̶ͯ̇ͭ̿̇̑͡o̓͗͗ͥ͑̽̊̎̓ͦ̅͋̀̍̚҉͟͜͡r̵̛ͧ̐͌͌ͨ̉̓̒ͬ̍̓̏͊͋ͧ̏̏̏͝f̆ͪ́ͫ̓̌̈̐͋̕͏̷͏͞u̽̐̾̏͊ͬ̇̆ͧ̓̕͝͞l̡̏ͥ͋ͤ̂̓ͫͩ̆̀ͥ̑͘͡͏ ̢̢͌̌ͮ̋ͬ̑̒́ͭ̏̄͑͞l̶̷̒͌̆̐̇̓͒̽̿̒͐ͫ́͟͠i̴̛̇̽͐ͣ͌̀͝n̶̡̢͛̑͂̑͋̃́̾ͧ̈̚̕͞gͥͪ̀ͬ͋ͣ̏̆̆͠҉͘͞ṓ͒ͣ̇͋̽͊̿̑̏̾͌̒̀̚̚҉̨͡.̸̡ͤ̉̊̇ͮ̏͘͢**

_.̸̶̡͆ͩͧͫ́͑̽̂͒ͦ̀̽͊͟͠ ̧͂ͬ̾̂ͧ̈̀̚.̵͋̊ͬͧ̓̂͟ ̢̈́̀ͤ̑ͤ͆ͫͮ̏̌̈́ͦͭ̾ͯ͊͟.̸̛ͫ̋ͯ̔̑̊ͣͦ̋̅̏ͤ̂͒̇ͦͭͬ̔́͡ ̴̶̽̽ͯ͆̂̃̀̏ͩ͗ͦ͆ͨͬ͛̑ͮ͑͘t̾̈͗̎̔ͫ̔̌͘͘h̷͑̎͑̒̋̽̕͝e̷̍̑̓͌̍̓̾ͬ̈̀̚͢ ̢̛͊ͨ͗̊̇͟h̨͊̿͌̔̽ͯ̃̍̄ͨͩ̾̅ͥ͌ư̶̸̽̓͂̂̇͘m̶̴̴̶ͬ̓̐́͋̋̈́̈́͛̀͆͒͒ͨ̌̀̚ą͆̑̊͂̏͗ͭͯͦͨͬ͑ͮ̇̃̚͢n̍͊͛ͦ̂ͥ̆͒͐́ͨͤ͌͏̧҉'ͩ̾ͣ͂̽̿͒̾͊ͮ̀́ͣ̎̀͝͏s̸̍̉̋ͨ̇͆ͥ̋͂̒́ͯ̇̚͟͢ ͧ́ͫͯ̎̔͂̈́̆̿̚͘dͫͣ͌ͧ͆́́̍̿̈̚҉̡͏ę̎ͦͩ̊ͤ̊̐͌̍̏̑ͨ̌̃͂͋̐ͭ̚̕͜͞͡aͧ̓ͮ̊̃ͫ͗̿ͭͩ́̎͐̚͏͞҉͏͢ḑ̍̆̾̄ͥ͑͐́̍̿̎̈́̕?̷̷̨̅̈́͌̈ͮ͑̏̿ͧ_

**̢̅͆́ͤ̽̔̓͊̚B̛ͦ͒̎̄ͧ҉̶͏̡ṹ̢̿̄̓̉ͣ̚͜͏m̸̨ͭͦ̅̅ͬͧ͐͋ͫ̉͢͞m̛̒̂̈́̒ͩ͋̄̌͛̏̃͜͏̕̕é̶̷̛͐ͪ̒̐̉ͩ̚͢͟ṙ̶̡ͨ̔́̏̂̋̿̀̋̑̕͘͡,̴̸͆ͤ̑̍̋͐͐̄̏͋ͬͣ̋ ̧̨͊̎ͥͧ̈̑̇̏̔͆͛͌ͥ͒h̵̍ͯ͌̂͑̉̉̏ͥ͂ͬ̈́ͣ͒̆͊̀̚͝͠ư͂ͣ͌͂̓̄̐̋͟҉h̶̸̾̎̔̄͘?̵̸̨ͧ̈́̑ͥ̂ͥ̀͜ ̵̃ͫͪͨͤ̈̌̇͗͆͗ͥ̈ͧ̈͡Ȋ̷̢̌̽͒̕ ͩ̆ͩ̎̑̑ͤ̉̓̿̃͊̏̀͂ͦ͆̽̀k̷̶ͭ͆̓ͪ͗̎ͥ̅͛̿̐̏̿̑̈́͋ͨ͢nͥ̒ͥ͊̓̊̉̃̆̽͛̎͛̈̾͏̧ǫ̃̅ͬ͆̊̋ͭ̄͆̈́ͧ̒̈̋ͬ̚̚͞͞w̶ͮ̉ͨ̾ͪ͑͊̏ͣ̏̽̋͛̃̀̚ ̊͑͊̾͛ͮ͂̚͜͟y͑̉̒̑̋ͩͦͭͨͭͦ̀҉̶̛̕o̷̶̿̐̂̈́̅ͭ̉ͭ̚͝͞ủ̵̵̢̡̢͌̍ͦ̿̔̉̃̇ ̧ͬͫ̔̔ͮ͌̕͏w̵̸̛ͥ̇ͩͨ̋͂͑͗͐͋͡a̧͊́̌ͩ͛ͮ͛̊͂͐̒͟͢͝҉n̔͋̾̒͛̎̈̇̍̑̾̋̊̆ͫ̅̂̂ͫ͟͠t̴̨̛̔̾̓ͧ̓̈́ͦ̀́̚e̶͛ͨ͋̏͆͌̌̆ͧ́͆̐͋̇̽̚͘͠dͯ̌͛ͣ͆͊ͫ͂͂̾̆͂ͬͯ͑͑̂ͫͫ́͜͜͢ ̷̷̛ͦͩ͗͆ͪ̎̒̌̏̒͆͆́ͦ̚͟͢t̸̵̶͛̔ͤ̈́ó̆̿̀҉̧ ̧̄ͦ̂̐ͩͯ͊̑̓̀̏̽̌̓ͯ̈ͭͬ͡ō̸̋͒͗̄̓̔ͩ͂̆́ͪ̑͒̿͛͒͞f̧ͨ̍̽̀͛̈̆͂̏͘͟͡f̛ͫ̏̉̀ͤ̀̚̚ ̸̸̛̉̄ͤ̓ͭ̿̚i͑̓̅ͣ̎̀̿̈́͛̀͢͠t̵̵ͣ̏̓̓̋̀͟ ͋̾͌ͥͯ̄̿̒̓ͨ̉ͥ͌ͨ̇͘͜͠ŷ̛͌ͨ̎ͣͪ̂ͥ̅̃ͧ̋͗̐̀̉̏҉̡͝oͨ̉ͧ̂́̀̕͠ǔ̶͑̍̉͂̓͑̒͏͡r̴̈̾ͤ̒͊͒ͥ̃̅͝͏̛ş̛̽̏̿͛̎ͮͬ͒͆̓̆́ë̷̌͊̄ͣͣ҉̀͜͞lͩ̇ͭͪͥ͊́̀͐́ͬ͆̒ͧ͏͏͢҉͟f̎̾͂̋ͪͦ̈̃̔̒͋̒͒̾̚͝҉͏̵͡,̶̓̈ͩ͊ͩ͋͌͋̿͐ͧ̐̃̾̓̔͏̵̴ ͦ͐̂̿͋̐͛̎̅̊̓̈́̅̚҉͡bͤ̑̾̓ͪ͝u̅͐ͫ̑͐̀ͨ͂ͪ̎ͩ͑̔ͣ͛͋̚͏̛͞͠t̎ͨ̊ͧ̒͛̂͝҉͡͝͞ ͐̈́ͧͯ͒͒̽̾͋ͩ̂̚҉͜i̴̧̛͂̔̈ͨͬͮ̀̿͌f̵̶̊̿̽̽ͯͬͨ̇͐͗͘͟ ̧̡ͨ̇ͣ̆̎̐͞I̶̡̓ͤ̽̀̏̓̋ͣ̌ͣ̽̏̍́̀͏ ͤ̀͒̾ͣ̃ͩ̑̌ͬ̊̌ͬͫ́ͥ͘d̶̨͌ͭͥ̿̿͋̈́͡įͨ̓ͣͬ͌͘̕͞d̢̨͒̐̾̏̈͗n̸̡̨ͩ̌̌̾ͬ͂ͫ͌̈̄ͬ͐ͫ̄͝'̧̋͗̋̍̈̄ͥ̃ͬͧͭ̔ͮ͏t̸̨́̍̄̓͆ ̵̵̉̄̿̏̊̈ͫͤ͐ͪ͒̃ͪ͑̈̿͛̊l̵̴̀̏ͨ̊̌̇́͗̑̅ͥe̴̽ͯ̎̓̌̀ͨͤ̆̍̀̚̕͢͡ą̉́ͧ͐ͥ̎͑̓͘͢v̷̵̊̈́ͤͤͦ̏̌ͬ̇ͬ̐̌͡ë̴̡̨ͯ̃ͨ̓̀ͯ̆̌̅̈́̋͠͝ ̸̵̨̨̅̉̅͆͒ͤ͋̎̐̂́ŵ̴̷ͬ̃̌̐͑ͬ̑̉ͦ̆̍̂͊h̴̀̅̄ͭͭ̊͛ͬ̃̄͌̐ͮͮ̑̈́̀̚͢ẽ̈̈̆ͨ̈́̒͂̒ͯ̓́͐͢͞n̵̢̓ͬ̅̾͐͋̒ͬͬ̋͌ͬ̆ͭ̉̚͘͘͟ ̷ͯ̾̔́̾ͫ͞İ̸̡̧̐ͬ͗͐͡ ̐̈̍ͥ͊͂̓ͥ͛͌̈ͯͣ͢͞͡͠d̛ͬ͆ͫ͐ͫ̂ͭͭ̏͟͡i̵̷̷̶̇̓̅̽̚͘d̷̸̨̧̉ͩ̽̓͆ͦͥͦ̾̉ͥ̊̅͑̚͠ ̒͌͗̇͆̑ͬͮ̒̒ͬͨͤͦ͐̆̀̎͟͏̵̛t̛̐͗͛ͧ̅̂̒͆̑̀̄̊͘ḧ̡̃ͫ̀̏̀̈ͫ͗ͯ̐̋̍ͣ͐̑̓͛̚͞e̡̨͋͊͒̅ͧ̀ň̨ͤ̊ͩͭ́ͥ͌ͭ̉̎ͯ͐ͤ͊͡͠ ̢͂̽̌̅̋̅͗͒͊̚͠y̨̨̿̐͆͊ͬ̀̑ͦ̃̐͊̊͐͞o̾̏͐̈ͨ̑̓̾͂̐̕ū̒ͥ̈́̉͌ͮ͒̈́ͣͧ҉̷r̵̡̀͐ͩ̇ͣͥ̀́̍̒̓ ̴̢̓͒͂̊́ͭͨ̓ͦ̓̀͘͟sͣͫͭ͐̓̐͂͢͟ŏ̸͐͛̌̊̆̈ͤ͑ͪͪ̽ͭ̀̓͝͠ų͗̏̋͌̅̑̆̅̾ͨ̈̎̃͝͞l̨̧͊͒͒ͯ̅ͭͭ̈ͮ̅͂ͧͧ͑ͦͥ̒̚̕͘͝ ̊̿ͮͫ͊͛ͥ̎͒ͩ̆̑͏w̿̍͑́ͥ̇̌̉̔́͞oͣ̊̊̑ͭͩ͊̌̾ͮ̅ͦ̾̀̍̇̽̎͏͞ư̓͋ͧ̀́ͯͦ͏͡l̷̉̇̄ͭͩ̔̉ͬͮ̓͒͢͏d̾̇̿̍ͧ̄͌ͤ̆́́͡ ̴̵̵̢ͬͭ̓́ͦ͐̔́̐ͪ͐ͥ͆̕j̵̴͌ͤ͊̄҉̨҉uͪ̽ͬ̓͆̒͒̊̈́͂̿̉̌͊ͣ̃ͤͫ͠͞sͮͯ̄̿̍͐͊ͥ͒͞͏͠t̷̢ͤ̂ͨͫ͒́͆̅̂͊̄ ̨͊͒̾̏͘̕͜͞b̛ͪͩ̐͗̂͗̆̎͟͞e̛͛̄͆̂͂̊͜ ̋ͭ͛̓̕҉́҉a̢̛̛ͦͫͣ̎̐̂͐͂̎̀́ ̷̸̛̐̾̄̏̔̔́p̛ͫ́̌ͤ̽͑̌̽͌́̓̿̐̃͋͂̽̚͘͝įͦ̆̌̂̄̍̇̒ͩͬͭ̋ͮ͊͂͢͝l̃̽̈̂͏̶̢̀ę̸̛̌͗ͭͥ͆ͧͪ̉ͣ͠ ̵̔̓̆ͣ̏ͧͥ͗͌ͩ͘͟ǫ̸̵͌͒ͫͫ͗ͨͣ̔͂̎͑ͮ̽̉ͤ͡͠f̓ͩ͐ͪ̊ͥ̓͋͌ͩ̚̕ ̒ͮ̒͊͒ͦͧ̈́ͪ̀d̸͛̍̈͐̂ͥͭ̍̄̅̂ͬ̇̊̌̿̀̕ȗ̸ͦ̆̿̃ͬ̄̍̉̽̏́̀͜͞ş̸̐ͯ̌ͥ̂̋͠t̶̸͊͊̒ͦ̇͐̂̕͜ ̓ͥ̉ͤ͊ͨͥ͛ͩͣͤ̐̒͒̋ͨͨ̓̒̕͢͡͝n̷͋̓̈ͨ̐̒̐̍͒̈́͋ͪ̉͑͏̧̡ŏ̶̍̑̐̒̒͟ẘ̸ͨ́͑̓ͦ̒ͧ̃̓ͣ̀̀.͂͒ͫ͌̓̿̆̍̏͟͏̨̡҉**

.̡̡̎͂̏ͪ͌͂̏͋ͪ́ͪ ̌ͯͩͥͤͮ͗ͪ͌͂̓͊̄ͬ̅̑̌̇͐͏͡.̸̧͋͆ͨ̎̒͆͛̒̅̏̾̒̓̀ͬ̚͠ ̵̨̄͂͌̾ͬ̿̒ͮ͑ͯͨ̑͒̔͝҉.̧̋̅̎ͫͮ̾ͦ̈́̎

**oͥ̋̋̃̎̎ͯͣ̋ͩͧ̊̾̓͌̉͑͑̀̀̕͡h̶ͣ͂̿͊̃̅ͮ̽̒ͦ͐͛ͦ̊ͬ̊ͫ͗͒͘ ̓͒͑̏̿̋̀ņͫ̒̈́͑̎ͮͤ̐͑͘o͋ͮ͊ͪ̉͐̍ͧ͜͞͡,̷̢ͦ̑̏ͦͧ͒̀͟͟ ̵͐̒͊̂̐͟͡͝I̸̵̛̅̽͗ͪͪ͆͑̉̌͆̈ͮ ̵̷͋̓̇̍͆̏ͧ͒ͦ̓ͫ̇̂̚͏̢k̾̅̊ͫ̈́͌͋̓͊̚͟҉͝͏n̄̒͛̿͊̑͗̽́̈̀ͪ̌̇̿̚͘͟͢o̶̢ͮ̓̅͐͌ͨͭͮ͋͗͛ͥ̇̆ͩ́̚w̧ͧͩ͆ͨ͂̽̽̒ͫ́̓ͪ͂͡ ̵̵̷̾̈́̓̍̾̍ͫͣͣͮ̐͒ͦͭͪ͟͢wͪ͗̈ͤͤͧͭͭ͋̂̆͏̵̕͞ḣ̉́͌ͨ̌ͬͥͩ̌̉ͨ̅͢͟á̷̵̧̇̿̉̏̅ͥţ̵̸̛̍͂̽ͯͭ̓ ̐ͧͭ̓͑͐̌̐͜͠͝y̵̏̿ͮ̑̑ͦͩ̈́̾̄̂ͣͪ͐̓ͦ͘͡ő̷̢̢̑͊̓̔ͥͩ͒ͤ͢ũ̌̅͒̎ͬ̀͛͊ͣ̇̌̌̌̂͌͊̐͢͟'̴̴̵̈́̊̃ͥ͑͊ͣͯ̈́̒ͬ̅ͭ̋̍̆́̚r̷̸̢̔͆̈ͨ̊͂́̌̿̄ͯ̑͛̓͊̅͠eͣͨ̍͒̓͘҉͏̧͏ ̴̐́̆ͫ̋͊̉͋͐̔̈͂̀̐̾҉͞͡҉t̸͑́̋͗ͯ̑̇̓ͬ́̇̒͑̅̎͛͢h̴̊̑ͣ̿̅͆ͮͯ͏i̶̸̍̓̋̋ͬͪͦ̉̓ͤͯͣ̂ͬ̒ņ̸̅͊̄͒̔̌́͌ͩ̀͌̑ͥ̄̊̄̉ͣ͒͢k̅͗͆͗ͩ̉̓̈́͌̑̎̎͐͏iͧ̏͋͛̔̌͌̎̒ͦ̽̆̌̄̏͂͏n̋̈́̊ͥͣ͋ͮͮ̍ͦ̚͏̵̵g̶̔͑ͮ͐̃̀ͧ̽̾͘.̢̏͊ͧ͆̔ͭ͊̅͗͛̀͆̆̓ͩ ͒̈͛ͯ̎͛ͨ͂̀̉ͣ̌̋͛ͮͧ͢͡Ş̢̒̄̂͐̃ͫͩ͂̔͊ͣ̽̊̏̊͑̍́̚͡o̅̎̌ͤ̓ͭ͌̔̀ͨ̓͂ͯ̓̿̾ͨ̚͢r̴͗͆̑͊̅̿̎̋ͬ̎ͩͮ͑ͯ͒̋̆͌̿͠r̛̃ͦ̂̐͊̑͑ͦ̆̋ͯͥ͒͝y̡͂ͬ̂̍͒ͬ́̇ͥ̈̑͒͐͗͊ͬ͘͠͞ ̵̛ͫͦ̅ͮͨͨ̑ͬ͗͋͑͝f̧̡̔̈́ͨ͐̋ͥͣ̓͡͞͠r̴ͪͦͥͮͭ̒ͯ̉̈̓̓̏̏̾̑̇̓͗҉̵͢ĩ̷̡̡̡̋͗ͦ͂ͫ̇e̡̡̨͛̾ͧ́̇̄͊͗ͪ̓ͧͦ̓̎ͥͨ̂̋́͘n̶̛̐͂ͦ͆͐̓͊̋ͤ̋ͭͫͩ͋͋͐̿͌̎́d̆ͪͥ͂̍ͭͨͥͧ́͐̎ͭ͗͒ͬ̈́͢͟͡͞͠-̾̌̏́̏́̋ͧ͗̅̓ͮ͒̌ͮ́́̕͝**

_ẇ̷̢͒͑̊ͪ̉̃̃̇͐͛̎̌̒ͤ̈͘͏e̡̛ͫ̊̃ͯ͒̾̈́̋̀͝͡'̂̄ͯͤ͂ͯ͊͌̓͐ͫ̚͏͜r̅̓ͯ͒̎͑ͪ͌̃҉̛͠e̷͛ͦͫ͐̽ͥ̓̋̆ͫͮ̆ͣ̋͐̾ͥ͗͢ ̎͛ͭ̽͛̒̋̿͊͌ͦ̃̿͒̅̎ͣ͊͏̸́͠n̡̐͒͐́ͦͯ̀͜͞͞o̧ͩ͛͌̄̐͘t̴̴ͣ̈͊̐ͭ͒ͭͤͮͦ̑͆̊͌ ̶̛ͣ̈ͤ̇͛̈́͘f̷̵ͦͧͭͨ̿̏ͣ̃͗͊̃ͤͯ̔ͥ̑ͤ͘͟rͪ͊ͥ͋͑͆̆ͭ҉̢i̴̢ͤ̓́͛̋̅͒͐͠eͧ͑͑͐ͯͫͭ̔̈́̐́̀̀̕͟n̨̑͑̄ͦ͊ͩͯͪ͑ͬ̓͋̉ͭͨͬͧͯ͠d͑ͪͫ̍̒̚͏͞͏s̵̡ͨ͆ͧ̌̔̉̔͑͛ͯ͡!̛̌͐͑̆̐ͯ̓̉ͥ͂̅ͤ̓͂ͪ͠_

**-̴̛͆ͭ̊ͮ̓̿҉̢b̡̡̒̆̓ͧͥ͑̀̕ů̷̡ͥ̃ͭͬ̎ͧ̀̚͏̵t̨̋ͣ͑̾ͣͨ́ͫͩͦ̓̕͠͡ ̉̌̋̓̓͏̵̛̀͘Ḯ͑̈́̈ͮ̃ͩ͋ͫ͒̀̚͞͠͞ ̵̔̓̋̋̾̄ͤ̊͠ç̶̛̾ͬ̈̔̑̿ͪ͒̈́ͣa͑ͨ̿́̿ͬ̔̑̿ͯ̾͞͏n̉̒̃ͯ̋̆̅̏͟͝͏̕'̷ͣ̉̃͐ͤ͂ͣ̋̓́̓̾̏̐ͩt̶̅͂̅ͦͦ̒̔̇ͤ͋͂̈̑ ͑͌͗͛̑ͪ͗ͨ̂͒ͥ͒̑͂ͧͣ͊ͣͦ͏̸̨å̧͌̐̏͂ͤ͋ͫ͒ͬ͗̈͛̏̊̔͊̉́̀͟f̧̧̍̈̀̈ͦ̃ͮ͊ͥ͂̈́ͣ̀̒ͥ̒͜f̸̶̧̓̔ͦ͛͛̃ͯ͑̏͒͋ͩ̆͆̓̓͊̐͠ǒ̷̴̢͗͐ͬ̌͑̊̊̚̚͜͞r̴̢ͭ̏͋͆̈́̊͌̊̌ͫ͂̄̐̄̒͂ͬͫ̀̕ḑ̵̴̃̅̌̃́̋̿̆̽ͮ̔͊̽ͭ̿̓ͧ̍̀ ̨̨̏̇ͥ̔̆͑ͯͥ̌͘͜t̸̶͂̄͛͋ͪ̈̒̒͝ǫ̿́ͥ͂̏̉̑ͥͬ͛́͊ͭ͗͠͝ ̨͛̎ͦͨͫ͘͢l͌̉͆ͫ̃̂ͦͧ͐̊ͦͥ̅̚͘͝͏͏̵e͋͑̎ͯ̀͆͂ͫ̊ͮ͌ͧ͐̿ͨ͐̅̈́̂҉̶͏ţ̧̂͗ͭ̅͗ͩ̍̎̌͒̐͐̒͂̓̓ ̡̡ͦ̿͆ͭ͌͛͌ͫ͋ͬͬͦ̔͛̓͆̾̚̚ÿ̛́͂͐ͯ͊ͨ̈ͤ̚͏̡ȍ̷̶͒̅͋̾ͭ͌̐̓͛ͩ̌́́ͭ̅̓̈́̚͜͢ů̷̊̎҉̴̨͡ ̵̢̎ͩ̓ͪͪ̑̚s̡̛͐̓͋ͦ̉ͪ͒̎ͬͥ͗̇̈́̚͜͜͞h̴̨ͧ̿͌̍͒̄̎ͥͬͦ͊̇ͨ̾͟a̧̐͆̌̀̉̉͒ͣ̌̔̏҉̵̷t̴̨̛͗ͪͮ̄͊̉͗ͦ͆̍ͣ̂͑ͥt̛͐̽ͧ̒ͨ̌ͩ́͠͡ę̢̆ͦ͐ͫͦͫ͆ͬ͊̅̌̋͘͟r̸̨̨ͨ̎́͊ͧ̅͌̔̂̚͞ ͤ͐̾ͦ̈́̐̊ͯ͜͜҉i̡̢ͭ̈́̽̋͋̆͡ť̡͑̍̅͠.̧ͯ̀̂ͨ̾͑̓ͧ͛͌ͦ̉ ͆̅̓̆ͬͮ͛ͦ̀ͪͯ͑̇̓̍͘͢Ï͆͋́ͭͮ̇̏ͫ̇ͤ̈́͋ͬͫ̈́̓͂͘͢͡͡ ̧̛ͩͨ̇̉̔̎͆͊́̿́̚͏n̶̶̢̛ͨ̾ͦ̌̉ͩ̀͛̓̃ͬ͝ẽ̛̛̂̊̽̈́̋ͦ͐ͬ̈ͮ̓̿͐͞ę̵̨̉͒̐ͤ͌̐ͨͫͬ̏ͪ̀͌ͨ͋̔̀͡d̛̛͂ͣͬͭ͒ ̡̛̀̍͐̾̿̓̊̿̚͟͠͏ṫ̷̷ͤ͛̓̇̍ͯ̔̕͘͠ḩͯ̎ͥ͐̄͛ͩ͑̍́̀̕͝ỉ̵̸ͫ̉̾ͮ̎͒ͪͧ̌ͣ́́ͥ̈́͢͞s̢̨̉̎̐ͮͮ͛̐̑̂͂̅̔́͘͟ ̨̛̓̓̐͂̀͊̌͊͗ͦͪͪ̂ͧͣ̍ṡ̛͑͊͌͆ͥͩ̿ͫ͑͌̄̈̌̐ơ̽̍͌ͦ̏ͧ̿͏̡u̸̴̢͒͐̓͐̍͂ͯ͂ͨͪ̔́̓̽ͪ̽͗͋́͠l̶̷̢̓ͮ͊̿͗ͬͭ͗̍́̆̈́͂͆͑.̶̷̡̡̂ͣ̎̑͂̈́**

_̵͊ͫ͒͌̈ͥ͑͌̂ͧ̃̏͒̾̈̚͘͞ ̵͌ͭ̓ͣ͐̓̉ͨ͑̓̈́͐̓̾͗̍̋ͮ̕ý̀̅ͤ͂ͫ̉̕ơ͐ͮ͊ͤ̀̆͑̓͑̓̒̒̑ͨ͘͜ư͌̓͐͛́́͘ ̴̡͋̇̀̿́͌̔̿ͣ͌̓̔̄ͩ͒̍ͬ̀͞c̸̶̀ͧ̒͘͟å̢ͥ͆̔͊̀ͭ̿̋̋ͦͮ͂ͬ̿̈́̄ͬ̚͘͘n̢̏͊̏̄͘͢'̇ͬ͐̈͑̍̓҉҉͠t̵̴̴͑̒͊͛̈́ͫ́͠ ̷̛̛̅ͮͪ̾̿̑́͛̀̋̇̌ͤ̎u̷͑͗ͩͧ͘͢ņ̷̛́̀̔ͬͦͨͬͧ͆ͦͤͪ͐ͧ͜d͆̎ͧ͐ͩ̿ͨ̌̓̈͏͢҉e̵̵ͦ̈́ͪ̀ͪ̀͡͝r̉ͪ̊̂͆̑̾͗͐͝҉̶͝ş̷̸́̄̒̈́̅̍ͬͮ͟t̔ͥͨ̏̕͜͠͠͏a̴̢̾̾̈́́͛̃͘n̔̑̒̎̊ͮ͗͂́͟҉͡d̸̡̛ͣ̍ͣ̐̾̓͋̀̀ ̶̧̍ͧͧ̂̿͒ͥ̀̑̎ͪͨ̂̄́̚h̡̧̛̾ͤͨ̏̊ͬ̿ͯ͗̚̕ơ̸̡̧̔̃̑̐͗͏wͧ̉̊͂͐ͪ̇̆̆̏̔̒ͧ͏̷̡̀ ̶ͭ̓ͫ̈ͧ̈́͊̓͑̑̋̓̈͐͘t̛ͧ͋ͯ̎̄̾̓͋ͮ̔ͮ͊̚̚͜͢h͆ͮ̐͂ͪ̚҉͢į͋ͪͧ̏͒̊̎ͫ͡͏̢s̈́̇ͧ̂̒͏͞͡͏ ̷̧̅̀̉̑̇̽ͩͩ͏f̡̃ͣͣͮ̔͐ͭ̇ͯ̓ͯ̄ͦ̈́̓̉͗̆͏͟͢e̶̡̋ͥ̔̈̆͋̒̔̉̓̉̑̽͊̇̀͘͞e̅̌̔ͫ̅͋̌͂ͧ̋ͤ̚͝l̷̎ͦ̏ͤ̃͊͒̊̋͜šͪͭ̈ͣ͛ͯ̐͆̀̀.̢͂̍̆̿̌̎͂̌͂ͯ̑ͩ͐̒̈́ͭ́̚͝͠͠_

**H̸̛̛̀̂̄ͪ̊̐̾̇̾͑͋̾̀̃͒̾̚͠Aͥ̒̏ͩͪͦͤ̽̂ͩ̚҉̢̧҉͡!̑̈ͤͦ͐ͧͧͪ̏͊͊̃̌̑͊ͥ̈ͣ͘͢͡͝ ̧̾ͭ̎ͧͦ͠͡҉͞Y̵̢̨̔̍͒̒͘҉o͒̓̋ͬͥ̽͒̎͢͏̴̀uͨ̈́̔̆̃̎̀̔̆̓̈́ͬͭ͛ͥ̽̔͏̢'̵ͤ̿ͮ͐ͩͣ̈́͑͐̒̅ͭ̎̈́̅̑ͯ̔̓͘͢҉r̸̸ͫͪ̂ͪͮͣ̋̎̚͏͞͏e̓̋͑ͥ́ͨ̒ͯͫ͂̅ͪ͐ͮ̏ͥͨ͘͏̶̶̡ ̈̔̀͗͊̈́͐̌͏̧̢͠r͆ͧ̆̈́̂͌͒̚̚͡͡҉̷̨i̵ͦͮ̃ͮ̎ͫ͐͆ͥͤ̄͐̒̑̀͢g̡̨͒̇̂ͥͬ̎̋͗͗̾͌̊̆̚͠͝͏ḩ̸̈́̇̉͑͌̔ͥ͌͐͛̈́̓̂̐̏ͬ́̚͘ẗͧ͗̐͌̈ͮͦ̒̇̌̆ͮ͛̃͠,̵̨̛̃̓͑̽͊̑̄̍̒ͥ̏ͭ̔͐̀͘ ̔͆̈́͗ͬ̽̈́͒̀ͤ̅̔͒͂͂̓͛̿ͥ̕͘͞Į̵̴͐̔̽ͦ̿͂ͩ̔̓́͛̓̇͋ͪ͛̎ͦ̚͞ ̷̸̽ͯͬ̌͛̑͂̃͂ͨͣ͌ͩͬͦ͗̇̃͘͝͝ç̷̸͂̂͆͗ͫ̑̍͋̍͆ͣͬ̐̋͐͊͆ͧ̀̚ą̛͐͒̋̓̓͊ͨ̀͊̐̓̕̕͝ń̓̀̉̀̊͆͆ͤͨ͊̂͗͐̽̊̋ͣ́͘͝'̷̡̐̈́̋̄̾̅̈́͢t̷̵̸̿̔́̀ͭ̑͋ͬ̑͛̆͊͂́̚҉.̨̛̅̏͊ͯ̆͞ ͗ͥͤͭ̆̾̅͒̐ͤ͌̍̇ͮ̎͌͑͘͡Y̴̧̌̍̄̔̇͠҉o̐͂̄̑̍͆ͪͫ̾̅̌͏͝ų̉̈̅͂͒̀̕͡'̅͆ͪ̅͏̴̀͟͞r̵̃ͭ̐ͪͮ̆ͫͩ͂ͩ̓̆͛̍͆͠͠͠e̵̸̛ͯ͋ͯͮ̿̇͛ͨͣ͊̑ͬ̽ͧ̃͟ ̢̈́̽ͦ͗̈̏̓̌̀͆̊̆ͬ͟͏̴n̶̆͌̓̓ͨͫ̆̌͒ͨ͒̌̓̚͘ö̸̢̢ͯ͋͑̋ͨͤ͊̓ͭ̏ͨt̸ͧ̽ͪ̑̿̆̃̎̎͝ ̛̒͒͊ͩͮͧ͆̃͛̀̌̏̾̇̚҉̵͡t̏̈̊̆ͫ̀̒͒̅̋͒̎̃ͮͯ͐͗͒ͭ̀̀́h̶̡ͪͨͭ̌̒̆͌̀̒ͣ̓͋ͪͧ̎iͮ̌ͩͩͣ̌̅ͪͫ͊͑̄̑͋̎͐̂ͮ҉́n̛̏̓̅̄̈́́ͤ́ͬͨ̓͆̏͐̇ǩ̵̡ͧ̎̅̈́͊͂ͯͬͯ̃ͨ͟͢͟i̷̊̎̄͑̈͌ͬ̾̐̃ń̴̸̨ͯ͌ͥͣ͆̌̈͑g̛̿̿͌͐̍ͦͤ̓ͮ͞ ̷̆͌ͦͦͭ́ͤͩ́̑̒͊ͯ͒ͦ͝͠l͛͊ͥ͌̌͜͡ǫ̡̃͒ͣ̀͊̑͂͛̽ͨ̔̽̅̈͐ͮ̚̕͞g̴̀̓͂ͯ̔͂̄̏ͬ̽̈́̾ͦ͡ȋͤ́ͣ͌̒̂̋ͮ̈̌̓ͯͦ̌̀͢͞cͧ̆ͬ̾̈́̇̄̊ͩ̀͜a̷̵͌̍̐̉ͧ̾͛ͥ̽ͮ͂̊͋ͨ́l̶̶̛ͬͥ̾̉͌̏̉̌̉̎ͯ̎ͫ̽͗̌͐͜͢l̈͛̎̾ͮ̃̈͘҉̕͟͞ẙ̵̨̢ͣͧͯ̏̇̾͟.̵̒͛̄ͧͫ͛ͭ̾ͮ̿ͪͤ̐͋ͯ̓ͩ́͟͞ ̧̐̋ͭ́Y͗͛̌̊ͤͭͧ͘o̴̎ͤͬ͐ͦͥ̓̀ͣ̀̀u̡̢̎ͪͯ̈̉̏͂̇ͨ́̚ ̴̡͊́͊ͥ͋ͮ̀d̷̢̢͋̃ͣͦ̇̏̂́͞ǫͯ̋̂ͩ͊͐͛̉͒̇̇͊̾̓̍ͬ̌́nͧ̆̓͑̄͗͂̌̽ͩ͊̍͡'̧ͭ͑̈́̓͂ͭ͛̏ͣ̉̀̐͂̎̚̚̕͘ẗ́̐͌ͬ͂́ͤͦ͠҉̡ ̵̏͐͌ͤs̸̡͐ͥ̇ͧ̃ͥͮ̀̿͛̇ͯͥͯ͗̒ͤͦ͘͞͞ȇ̷ͨ̇̑ͥ̋͂ͪ͢͝͠ŕ̷̢̡ͤ͛̊̉̚̚i̶̸̇ͤ̎̿ͪ̏̊̄ͧͯ̍͗ͪ͌̍̈̃̃́͘͡ơ̴̒ͥ̍̚̕̕u̡ͪͦ̋ͬ̇̔̍͐̂ͩ̊̈ͧͥ̀̓ͧ̓̕ş̅̍ͮͭ͐̽ͦ̆ͯ̿̐̽̅ͭ͋̾̌͑ͪ͠͞l̸̡̂̆ͦ̆̐̾͗̃ͦͪ͗̓̾̈́ͤ͌̽͆͐͜yͫ̾ͪ̓͒̈ͮͮ͟ ̷̨̛͋ͩ̅͌ͫ̅̂͐̆̾ͨ̈͊͜b̈́̅́ͧ̅ͣ͂̎̅̑̂̈́̅͆ͪ͏͢ĕ̵̒ͨ̂̇͜͡l̡ͨͦ͗ͬ͂ͬ͌̈́ͬ͑̆̌̿ͫ͘͏͢iͭ͗̾̈́͒̊̓̔̊̑̒ͤͯ͢ęͭͦ̓͑̅̐ͦ͛̉͆͊͛͒͌ͪ͏͏v̆ͣͮ̔̓͏̶͠ȩ̍ͪ̿ͯͯ͟ ̢̧̛͐ͣͣͣ͐ͥ̉͆t͆ͯ̋̔ͯͥ̎̋͆̎̀̒̅ͮ̓̚͡͞͡h̵̉ͮ͗̑ͤͦ͒̐͆͐͒ͧ͡ā̸̇ͫ̆̌̎̒͂́̑̋̎̃̀͝t̵ͣ͑̉̇̈́̊ͩͩ̅͌̽ͧ̽̐̚͟ ͬ̊͑̇̀̒ͤ̃̎̌͋̋̌̌̎ͨ̕͏͏i̊ͥͥ̓̀͋҉f̨̡ͪ̃̉̽̅̋̂ͦ̂ͪ̃́̑͊ͧ ̵̢̛͆̐̿̆̆͛̇̓ͥͥ̋̔ͬͯ̀̚͢t̶̡̂͂̈́͊̊ͤ́̚h̸̆̿ͮͦ́̔̈͏ȩ̶̷̵̍ͩ̎̔̇̈́͌͒͊͗̊͛̅̑̔̀ ̷̨ͫͮͯ́̔͛ͣ̔́ͮ̿̊ͨ̓͐ͤ͌̕t̴̷̨̑͒̇̈̋͌̎ͧ̏ͦͥ̎ͫ̓̐͒͆ͩ͠i̅̿ͪͪ̒͂͐͑̉͏̢m̸̂̋̂̄ͪ͗̍̐͞ḗ̑̓̋͗͒̔̄ͩ̊̿ͦͦ͂͊̇̋̃̀͟͠͞l̨̏ͮ́̓ͬ͗ͨͮ̂͐̃͆ͨ̀̕į̶̽ͭ̒̽̌ͭ͂͠҉n̆ͨ̀̆̎̓ͮͮͩ̓͑̋̀̆̓̒ͣ͠ȩ̇̀̂̈̽̾͐ͤ̕͘͞͠ ͬ̌̈̊ͫ̄̅́̃̀̿̉́͜͠ŗ̸̴ͤ͊ͫͥ͗͑ͮ̌̚͞͞e͛̈̅̈҉̴͜s̑̈̈́ͣͪ̑̇̀̕͜ę̧̢̔͂̈́ͥ̎͝t̂͐ͩͨ̏̃҉̶s̴̷ͥ̈ͭ̓̏̒̌̐̏̅̏̌́͞ ̢̒ͦͥ͆͆̆͂ͮ̈̚ẗ̶́̃̈́ͫ̅̅̄͋̋̋̈́ͨ̄ͬͭ͂́̚̕ȟ͒̂̈ͪͦ̉ͬͩͬ́̀̏́ǎ̸̢̢̐́͌̽ͭ̊̐ͦͯͥ̍ͨ̔͢͜t̢͐ͣ̔ͤ́̒̎͋͒̎̇͂̇ͬ͗́ͮ͌͟ ̷̷ͨ̂̂̓̀̀͘͟i̵̢͛̎̈͑͋t̸̡ͧ̋͗̒'̧̛͋̒͐̔͆͟͢lͥͩ͂͂ͩͬ́̕҉̀l̛̄̓͆ͩͤ̾ͨ̈̽ͬ̅ͣ̓ͦ͢ ̢̉̒ͬͥ̊ͤͨ͂ͣ̒͡g̡̋͂̈́ͧ̋̍͂ͫ̏̿͑̈́̓̋̚͝҉͟o̴͆̾̊̅ͫ̅͢͝ ̴̈́̂̋͒ͫ̀̚͟ảͣ̓͗͆̓̎̆̔̎̀̚҉l̋͐̈́ͥ͋̅̿҉̶̧l͐̋̌̏͑̽̈́͛̉͏̢̢ ̐̅ͯ̿̉͆ͬ͗ͨ͊̽̉̔̚͏̶͜t̴̶͂ͥ̾̎ͤ̔͆͌̑̓̉ͯͬ̃̾ͬh̡͛̂̉͋̀̿ͧ͑ͥ̔ͫ̽ͨͣ̽̔͢ė̶̢͛̆̋ͭ̑̋̍ ̐̍̈͊ͨ̈̓͗͆̄̋̃̇̇̑̒̄ͧ҉̶̕w̍ͭ͛ͧ̓ͩ̔̽̚̕͏̛͟͝aͯͥ̅̀͘͠ẙ̢̽̋ͨ͠ ͮ̌̉̔̀ͯ̏͒̈́̀̊ͥ̽ͦ͜͡b̶̡̛̅̓̀̂̐̎̚͡͝a̶͋͛ͦͨͬ̌̌̿͐̽̈́̌̀̚͘̕ç̽̏̂̉ͦ́̔̌̾̀͡k̢̒ͤ̊́͌̿͛̏̓ͣ̑ͫ͘͢ ̵̒͂ͣ̍͌͒́̄ͪ̐͛̋̚͘t̶̔̏̍̇̃ͪ̉̉͋̌ͤ͆ͦ̃ͮ̽́ͪ͜ő͐͊ͯ́̕͝ ͑͆̆͝͞t̛́̽̃͗̉̇̌͒̎̐͢h́̈́ͣ͢͞e̢͑̋ͤ̓͂ͤͦͨ̍̄ͦ̈́̾̆ͩ̽͘ ̨̌̂ͤ̇̓ͦ̉ͭͧ͗ͥ҉̛b̴ͦ̽ͭ̓̇ͤ͒͛̒ͮ͐͑́͡e̴ͪ̿̃̏ͯ͒́̆ͧͬ͘g̷̵̨ͣ́͂̌͒̅̂̔̚i̵̡͑̉ͦ̄ͪ̏̆̒͂͊̂̚̚҉n̄̅́̿͒͋ͤ̐͋̂͡҉̢͝n̴̾ͯͤͪ͂ͦ͒̀ͧ̽̓ͬ̚͢͠i̛ͬͮ̑ͭ̏͆̐̎͜n̸ͤͥ͋̇͂̑̾͌ͫ̌̐̅̚̕g̷̡̧ͮͮ̃̓̒́̂̃͗͆̊͋̓̎͗͂̿̀̚ ̴̛ͬ̈́̀̈̈́̿̀͘͠d̡ͨͨ̆ͦ́ͤ̎ͤ͊̏͜ò̊ͨͬ̄̇̆̀̊̅̀́͟ ̶̈̿͑̒ͪ͟͞͞͡y̶̴̍̓ͨ̍͛́̚͜͝o̵ͪ͗̏̉̿̈́͂̂ͦ̊̓͒̀ͯ͞u̸͛ͯ̓̄ͪͧͪ̋͗ͫͤͯ̾͊͊̚̚͡?̴̋̆̑̓̔͜͢͞͡ ̵̢̏͊ͭ̓̿̀͞Ȍ̸̧͆̿ͮ̇͛̂̉̎̅ͪ͗rͯͨͭ̏̉ͩ̅ͬ̾ͮ͏͢ ̴͛͛̎ͪ͑ͩe͛͑̂ͩ̍̋͌ͫͦ͆̏͆͐̈́͌̑̊ͩ͏v̴̢̎ͦ̈̾̎̌͢͏ȩ̴̊̐͑͛́́̉̽̐̋͋̿ͧ͋̐̀̕҉n̶̢̡ͦ̃͆ͫ̄ͣͣͪͧ͛ͦͨ͂ͬ̑͆ͯ ̢̢̛ͩ̾̎͗̋̍̉̿̀͗̅͆̐̄ͪ͝͝f̵̎́̽ͮ̂͆̄̀ͪ͜͠aͨͣͦ̏ͯ̀͜͝͝ŕ̢̌͗̄͒ͫ̏̆̐̈̌̽ͭͭͭ̎͠ ̴̡̿̃̓͆ͧͮ̈́̊͌̑͑̑ͪȩ̀̅̏ͨͮͮ͌̽̅ͧ̆͞͝n̵̡ͣ̿̓̅ͭ͆̓ͪ̈͟o͌͐̏̓̏́̌̇͐̀͘͞ű͗ͯ̊ͩͨ́̕͘̕g̡̅ͪͯ̄̓ͣ̐͋ͫͩͯͣ̓̆͊̎͘h̷̨̧́̂ͯ͗̓̀ ͆̍ͪ̒ͭ̆̅̿̐̆̂ͬ̀ͫ̒̄̔̏̚͡͡͝t̍ͦ͒̈́ͥ̌̉͜͠͝õ̢ͬ͐̍ͯͧ͟͜͢͞ ̢́ͩͫ̿̓̋͑ͥ̿̏ͧͭͫ͘͝b̛ͩ̄̓͐̚͢͠rͨ̎ͣ̕͞i̵͐͗ͧ̎̚n̷̢͛ͣ͌̅ͥ͊͑̂̑́̔͞ģ̵̏̔ͮͫ̍͊ͫͦ̏͐͊ͪͦ͝͠ ̒̿̏ͩ͊́̀̕͠͞yó͢u͟r̸͝ ͟b͡r͟o̕̕t̨͘͜h͜͏̶e͜͠r͜r̵̵̶̽̇ͩͩ̊́̉̉̄ͩ̾͆̿̔̌́̚͠**

_brother?_ That word manages to catch his attention. Sans tries harder to focus.

**b̢̘̘͔̭̲̹̠̻̱a͙̫̫̕͠c̳͓͔̝̣̳͕͕k̸̺͕̙̮̻̳̗̹?̸̦͕͟͡ ̛̰͖̻̘̤T̗͉͈̦̩̮̀ẖ̝̝͡e̶̬̩͘͜ ̷͖̥͘ǫ̠̦͔͈ń̝̞l̩̭͈̗̭y̛͇̭̯̩̱̳ ̧̺̬̘̘w̟͚̩͘͠͝ą̙̼̘̥̹̻̪͝ý̦̟͈̠̻͇͎̩̱ ̧͎̗̞̩̳̀t̼̫͘͡͠h͔͚̩͓̠͜͡ḭ̫̭̟̬̮ͅņ̟̺̘̥̀͝g̢̹̜s̤̹͢ ̵͏̲͈͇̭͕͎͎ẁ̵͙̰̻̗̳͇̭͢ͅi͖̖̪̰̱l̪̮̥͉̗̣͚̕l̸̞̱̪̳ ̗̪̝̘͞g̨̜̘̫̗̞̼͖͘ͅo҉̷̠̰̝̤ ̳̺͈̥͈̳̜̮b̡̩̩͉̜̝̖͢a̴͔̟̫̥͍̼̝͇c̵̝̱̙̝k҉̙͖̞̦̳̜̟̲̀͢t̢̧͖͇̺̺o̮̭̭̩̻̟̮͟ ̥̰̣̟̱̗̗͉h͏̝͓o̜͔̖̕͡w̵̢̝̠͟ ̣̠̀́ṭ̳̳͍͜͟h̡̝̝ȩ̛̗̬̹̩̝y̵̵̥̰̙̺̠̼̖̮͠ ̸͙̠́ẁ̴͓̰̼͉̖̭͟e̴̵̵͔̭̙͖r̵͍̕è͇̝ ̸̩͜͝í̡͓͇̫͕s̛͉͉̖͓̤̖̫͔ ̨̖͉̘̩̣ì͏̼͓͍̠͈f͔̫̘̠͟ ͙y̵͏̴͈͙̠̺̮̻o͏̼̺̥u̴̧͕̦̻̟͕̰ͅͅ ̢̮̠̤̱̞c̻̬o̷̧͈̰̭̥̫ṉ̞̱͇v͟҉̛̻̘͖̹̥̫̝̬ì̡͇̯n̸̨̞̝͉͈̭ͅc̶͔̼e̷͙̥̱͞ ̣̕͜͞t̛̝h̷̛̛̭̻̣̙̮̳e̸̷̮͘ ̝̝͈͓̮͍̀̕ͅͅh̸̡́u̵̷̢͘ḿ͞à̷̴̶n̶̸̛͡͞ ҉͡҉҉t̡́ó̶͝͝ ̷͞m҉́͡á̷̛͡͠k̷̀͢ȩ͢ ҉̨̡̛͠i͜t̡ ̴̡̨s̷̡̧̧͟o̸͜҉.͝͠͏҉͠ ̷̕͢͞A̴̛n͘҉̷d͝͠ ͝͠į̛͠t̷̢̢҉̶ ̸̷͟͡w̕o̵̵͜n͜͝͡'̸́̕͜t̛̛͟.̢́̀ ̵̵̢͠͞Y̶̸͘ò҉҉̕u͏̴͘g͝e҉̷̸̨t̕͘͞ ̷̢̧͟t͏̸̴h̕͟͜͠a̵̵͞t̴̨̢͡͠ ͞r͘͘͜͢͞i̷̸̶̛͜ǵ̀h̡̕t̨̨?̀͟ ́͟͟͞Ý̸͜͝͞ơ̸͞͠u̧҉̢ ͟͝t͏͝h̢͟i͏͘n̶̸k̸̛ ̷̀̀á̕ ̴̀͡ḩ̶̕ų́͞m̨͏̀a͏̧n̶͘ ̵̴́̀͞w̧͘͢h͟͝ǫ̷̨́͠w҉̷͠e͏̡͞n̢͠t̵͠͠ ̴̸̢́͘ó̶̸҉u͏t̸̸͘ ̕͘͠͡ó̧f̸͟͝҉ ̸͏́͜ţ́̕͟͞h̶̀͟͜͏ę̸i̵ŕ͜ ͘͠͏w͒ͭ̊ͤͣ̋ͯ͜aͭͤ́̅y̵̡̍͒͛͂̓̓ ̨̐̉̒ͥ̚̚͢͝t͗ͬͤ̄̀̕o̽ͬ̐̃͐ ̶̡ͤ̇͒̎͏k̛̿͢i̸ͨͩ̿̓ͦ̓ĺ̡́̚lͦ͂̍̈́̅̽̀͏̕ ̵̒̊̐̈́̎̓ͣ̚͘ê̡ͧ͆ͨvͧͧ̒ͩ͒ͮ͗̚͘͜ȇͯͪ͆̒͊ͭ̊͐͏̸̨r̶̀͑́͆̎̇y̨̛ͨ́̐͋̈́̈́̕oͮ̄̄n͛ͣ̒̉ͫ̏̚ě̢̋͒ͩͭ̄̎̀̚҉ ͌͑̅ͧ̊î͆̽͟ṡ͂̋͊ g͂̈͏͘o̅͒̉̌ͧ͋ͦͤ̅͟͡i͆̓̑n̿͗͌͝҉g̀́̾̽͋ͪ̍̄͘ ̀ͧ͂͗̀̋̃͒̋͏͟ẗ́͂ͩ͒ͭ̾̿҉̷ȯͫ̽ ̄ͦ̈r̓̿̇͆͢eͪͧ҉͢s̈̉́ě̔ͮ̀̚͢t͐́ ͐͒͂͟a̽̀̒ͥͭͬͧ͛̽͘s̅̌̒̽̓̔́ ̸ͨͮͩ͑̔̚a̛ͣ͛͑ͪ́̚ ̶͊̇̃̀͐̽̔́͠f̿͂ͪͪͭ́̋͘͡a̐ͤ̌̏͌̋͘v̵̐̆o̢͐ͤͬ͌ͩ̋̇͞ṙ͆͂̔ͣ҉ ̿́̃̒̐̾͝t̢͋͂̆̊ͥō̡̏ͬ̈́͝ ̂ͯ͊̒ͬ̀͂̚ýͧ̈̔̂̓̓̄̕͡͝o͆̓͆̊͘͝u̿͛̿͌?̂͊̓ͫͥ́́͢ ̢͛̾͆̍̒̏̔̕͡F̴͂͊́̂ͫ̇̂́ö́̈́̔̀͟r̛̔͊ ̴̈́́̿̄ͧ̍͛a̡̓́̕l̴̽͋l͌ͯ̾̉͟͝ ̶̨̏͛̕ỷ̄ͮ̏̄ͪ̋̅̀̕ǫ̎̉ͨuͩ͌̄̄ ̃ͮ̏̅͆͒͏k̽͞nͫ͛̈́o̵̅̕͘w̏͐̈́́͢,ͮͮ̓̂ͫ̒ ҉̧̀̀t҉͏̸͟h̢͟ȩ҉̶̶҉ ̛̕̕͢͜h̵͠҉҉u̢̢͘͟ḿ̵͢a̷̢̧͠͡n̶̡͜ ̢̨͘ḩ̢̨͘͘a͏̡́s͏́̕ a͞lre̕àdy̶ ki͞l̸led ͢yo̢u a HUN̴D͏ŖE͟D͡ ́time͠s̵, a͝ņd̸ I go͟t͏ t̴h̴ere ju͜s͟t̸ ̡in͢ ͞t͞im̀e ̕to͠ ͡s͘top͡ a͞n infinite loop of you losing."**

Sans is able to hear clearly again, but his head feels foggy; his bones insubstantial and brittle as ice. He's standing close to his alternate self, and the demon pokes its conversational opponent in the chest. **"I saved y-"** The other Sans bats his hand away, recoiling. "don't touch me," he staggers back, but falls, too weak to stay upright without support and ends up splayed out in the snow. He props himself onto his elbows and glares up at the demon, but Sans thinks he can detect a frantic, fearful waver to his eyes. **"I won't possess you,"** the demon sneers, voice amused as it stares down at him. Replica Sans casts his gaze to the ground and his body sags slightly with relief. **"Your soul needs some R &R first." ** At this he tenses; eyes flicking up to bore into the face of his tormentor. His eye sockets are black and empty. The demon chuckles, a low, throaty sound that Sans can feel vibrate through his ribs. **"Bro! It's like you don't know me at all! And after AAALLLLL that time we spent together,"** it throws his hands up in exasperation, then leans against the door frame casually. **"I thought we were friends!"** It watches the other Sans, eagerly anticipating a reaction.

Replica Sans narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw, but stays silent. Sans feels his body still, and, somehow, he can tell that the demon is disappointed. The quiet lasts for one second longer before all hell breaks loose.


	5. Chapter 5

Even with his mental state in shambles due to his brief hiatus from reality, Sans immediately recognizes the distinct, low-pitch thrum that bursts into existence behind his skull. He hardly has time to think the words _gaster blaster!_ before his body twists to face the threat and crouches low to the ground, out of harm's way, braced on one knee. The demon snaps his head up, and Sans is surprised to see that the gaster blaster was never facing them anyway.

The blaster's charge is escalating in pitch, crawling slowly to its peak. _why is it taking so long to charge? is it because that sans is tired? he seems tired. i'm surprised the demon isn't doing anything about it though..._ Sans gradually becomes cognizant of the fact that he is actually moving, but it's impossibly slowly, and other than the increasingly urgent whine of the blaster, everything seems silent. His body seems to be throwing its left hand to the side, but Sans doesn't know why it would be doing that. He is distinctly aware of every thought that passes through his mind, and although he eventually realizes that he is actually thinking at his normal speed, he feels like a blundering idiot. _why didn't he aim at us though? maybe he didn't want to risk getting caught in the crossfire? he is right behind us. but then why didn't he just have it materialize in front of us? it's almost like we aren't the target... the soul!_ Comprehension clicks into place like the final answer to a crossword, and with it, Sans is thrown back to time's normal speed.

And he hits the ground running.

The demon grabs an object, seemingly from the air itself, and leaps towards the blaster. Sans' body doesn't have the HP to take the hit in the soul's place and the soul is too far away to move to safety- but the blaster is within reach. Sans watches in stunned disbelief as the demon reaches along the underside of the blaster, towards its mouth. Glowing skateboard in hand, it catches the blaster by the teeth with the trucks of the board, plants both feet firmly on the ground, and, with a backbreaking wrench, uses all his body's forward momentum to tilt the blaster's line of fire to the ground. The gaster blaster releases its charge, and the skateboard shatters into a rainbow of magic shards, but the only permanent damage is a smoldering hole that cuts clear through the foundation of the house.

Before the blaster even finishes dissolving from existence, the demon whips around and Sans feels the increasingly familiar discomfort of the demon pulling from his magic as it grabs Replica Sans' soul, lifting him high into the air. The demon is shaking with fury, nearly all of Sans' limbs are flaming with a semi-transparent inferno of purple magic, and, through the haze, Sans can just barely make out his replica looking back at him with what seems to be a surprisingly smug expression. Body hanging slackly in the air, Replica Sans mumbles incoherently between great, heaving breaths. Sans couldn't understand what he had said, but apparently the demon did.

It begins to snarl in response and raises a hand, readying to slam Replica Sans to the ground, but then it freezes, utterly and completely. The magic is unnaturally transfixed as Sans' eyes stare through the lilac haze to search his replica's face. _what's happening?_ Replica Sans' expression is still goading, but it seems stony, and exhaustion leaves cracks that reveal the facade: Replica is terrified. The magic blinks out of existence abruptly, and, as Sans feels his face slowly form a maliciously delighted grin, he watches the fight leave Replica's eyes. **"Ha! I get what's goin' on here. You're joshin' me, right?"** The demon watches Replica's face carefully, and, though the other Sans manages to keep his face glued in a blank, frozen smile, his body radiates despair with its suddenly shallow, quiet breaths and quivering fingertips. **"Say it ain't so!"** the demon exclaims to the sky with chuckle. **"You didn't ACTUALLY think I'd KILL you, didja?"** It laughs and slaps his knee with his free hand. **"I guess you really didn't learn anything during our time together,"** it winks even though Replica has his eyes trained to the ground in mute defiance. **"I'll let you in on a secret, pal. I ALMOST forgot I should never underestimate you,"** it throws his hand up defensively. **"Yo! That's my bad, I know."** It leans forward surreptitiously, **"But, DUDE, it's just so easy to forget that you are totes CAPABLE underneath that lazy mask o’ yours.”** It begins pacing, marching back and forth in a perfectly straight line, four rapid steps at a time. **Sometimes it's easy to forget why Sanses are my favorite hosts..."** It trails thoughtfully and pauses, eyes roaming its prey excitedly.

**"But I mean can you blame me for forgetting?”** with a scoff it continues pacing. **“I've been through so many versions of you that you've almost become boring…”** It sharply turns to its victim and shouts, “ **ALMOST!”** Doubled over with one hand still outstretched, it guffaws, great peals of laughter that are thrown into the wind and twisted about, only to echo back like a chorus of hyenas. Sans feels an uncomfortable tightness in his throat that has nothing to do with the magic being pulled from him.

**“But this?”** The demon waves its free hand at the wreckage behind it. **“THIS was actually FUN,”** it tightens its magical hold on Replica’s soul cruelly **. “And after something FUN like that?”**

The tight sensation in Sans' throat begins to rise, choking him. It's different than before though. Somehow, it feels like it's... squirming. His body is suddenly very still, and Sans notices that, for once, the demon is also paying attention to the sensation. _i don't know if i should be relieved or terrified,_ he thinks anxiously. The demon pounds his ribs and coughs once, then twice before it abruptly hacks up a slithering creature that falls gracelessly to the floor with a wet slap. _huh... it actually is a leech,_ Sans thinks numbly, eyes trained on the wriggling figure. The tentacle-like creature is a bright, electric blue, but it twitches every now and then, catching the light and causing it to shimmer with an iridescent sheen. It spans about half the length of Sans' sneaker, and, oddly enough, seems to be emitting a poignant but not unpleasant scent similar to fruit punch. Sans tries unsuccessfully to ignore the sickly sweet taste in his mouth.

The demon traps the leech beneath his foot and it writhes enticingly, begging to be spared. Its efforts pass unrewarded as the demon promptly crushes it into a rainbow cloud of dust, then grinds his foot absentmindedly, smearing the remains like an erased chalk drawing.

**“Whoopsy,”** the demon sighs, finally acknowledging the ludicrous situation that had unfolded, literally, at its feet. **“Don’t wanna let one of these getcha, now do we, Sansy-boy?”** It kicks glittery puff in Replica’s direction pointedly. **“We wouldn’t want you to get hurt after all.”** It chuckles and peers thoughtfully at Replica, cocking its head. **“In fact, let me help you down, buddy.”** Making a theatrical wave, it guides Replica’s body to the ground like a conductor tapering the end of the Underground’s most delicate lullaby.

Lacking the strength and will to hold himself upright, Replica’s body folds in on itself as he’s lowered onto the snow, an empty smiling skeleton with empty black eyes. No longer shaking or trembling, and completely devoid of hope, he seems now more than ever like a marionette with its string snipped off.

The demon turns its back on Replica and pauses as if anticipating an attack, but Sans can feel that his body, and by extension the demon, is completely relaxed. It smiles widely and winks, both of which Sans knows are directed at himself, before it saunters to the center of the room to carefully pluck the soul from the table and tuck it under his left arm. Glancing over to the stacks of containers along the wall, it gives a thoughtful hum of deliberation, then shrugs before flicking open a portal with a silly waggle of his fingers. Sans braces himself for the pain of magic being pulled from his soul, but as the containers fall through the opening, looking like the floor had suddenly opened up to swallow them, he realises, for once, there was no pain. _why was this time any different?_

After the last container fell silently through the opening, the demon made a casual grabbing motion in the direction of the portal, closing it, before shifting the contained soul in front of his torso to hug it with both arms. Stepping carefully around the gaping hole in the floor, the demon meanders back to the front yard to tower over Replica.

**“You’ve really put me in a pickle with this one, broseph,”** it sighs, addressing Replica’s prone form. **“I can't forgive you for trying to ruin my plans.”** The demon sounds genuinely remorseful, but Sans can feel the twisted grin on his face, **“And even though we’re best bros, I'm actually well steamed, you know?”** It nudges Replica softly with a foot. **“So I WAS all crunk ‘bout sending you to some better diggs,”** it shoves its foot further into Replica’s side, grimacing. **“But since you went bunk, I've changed my mind,”** it mutters listlessly. **“You may have been able to get back here without my help, but that's only cuz this,”** it flips Replica over with its foot, **“is where you belong in the multiverse.”** It shuffles over to the crown of Replica’s skull to stare into his face. **“You can chill here with the dust until I come back.”** Replica’s breathing freezes in response and the demon smiles, sounding excited again. **“Yes, that's right. I'll come back for you, Sans.”** Pain rips through his body suddenly as the demon prepares another portal, but just before the demon and its unwilling host are thrown from this plane of existence, the demon croons out, **“Everyone deserves to be Fresh."**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, folks. Thank you so much for reading!  
> This is all I have so far, and, honestly, I'm not really sure where to go from here, so this story is on hiatus until I gain some inspiration.  
> Feel free to leave comments with critique, or questions, or anything at all. Let me know if you'd like my Tumblr in case you want to message me or something : )


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